Page 62 of Single Mom's Bodyguards
I shove him down against the asphalt, one knee between his shoulder blades while I pull a hood from my jacket pocket. Black canvas. Light-blocking.
“You can tell me who you work for, or you can wear this hood and learn where no one hears you scream.”
He doesn’t answer.
So I slip the hood over his head. “You want to stay quiet? You won’t for long.” I tap my earpiece. “Chief. I need a pickup. Back alley off Ventura. Quiet.”
“On it,” she replies instantly. “ETA four.”
I call Huck next. “Got one.”
“You need backup?”
“Yeah. It’s gonna get bloody.” Let this asshole hear me say it. I want him to know what’s coming. If you make your money by terrorizing women and children, you deserve to shake in your boots, bare minimum.
“Sounds like a party.”
By the time Chief arrives, I’ve already dragged the guy to the corner and positioned him behind a dumpster. He’s silent. Breathing a little heavier. Probably wondering where we’re taking him and what we’ll do when we get there.
Huck shows up in Chief’s black cargo van that we don’t put on any official paperwork. No plates that trace back to us. Lined interior. No windows. It’s not for show. It’s for results.
We don’t speak. We lift him in, zip-tied and hooded, and slam the doors shut behind him. Chief climbs into the front. Huck rides in the back with me. I glance at my phone as we pull away.
One text from Sean:Taking Bailey and Maeve home. Keep me posted.
I text back:We’ve got him. We’ll make him talk.
Our interrogation space is a shipping container at the docks. But it’s tricked out to look like it could be in an office. The guy’s sitting on a metal chair in the center of the room—wrists still zip-tied, hood still on, ankles restrained just loose enough that he could try to run, if he were that stupid.
He’s not.
The room has one exit, one vent, and no windows. The only light is overhead, bright and white and angled just enough to make him squint the second we rip the hood off.
Huck cracks his knuckles beside me and looks at the hooded figure. “Would you like to get started, you piece of shit?”
Chief stays outside the door, guarding. Huck’s standing in front of him. Hands folded. Expression calm. Like a butcher right before the cut.
The guy squints up at us. “You can’t hold me like this.”
Huck tilts his head. “Pretty sure we are.”
“I’ve got rights?—”
“We’re not cops,” I interrupt. “You’re not under arrest. You’re underreview.”
He says nothing. So I nod at Huck.
It starts small. A light punch to the stomach. Enough to wind him, not break him. Just a message.
“Who paid you?” I ask.
No answer.
Huck’s next hit lands harder. Gut again. The guy wheezes, doubles forward.
“Who?” I ask.
He spits on the floor. So Huck hits him in the ribs.
